Victims
by FrogHopper
Summary: Short stream-of-consciousness piece which sees Severus reflecting on life, the war and its inevitable outcome.


A/N: This is my first ever attempt at writing readable fanfiction, and reading back through it, it even confused me, and I wrote it! It's intended as a stream-of-consciousness style piece from the point of view of our favourite Potions Master! The content is a little confused, but the situation is set at a time when thoughts are at their least lucid. Chronologically set sometime after GoF, but more general than specific. The title makes sense to me, interpret it as you will. Isn't the whole canon open to interpretation anyway? And if not, then what are we all doing here? Constructive Criticism (please be gentle!) is welcome, flames are filed away for Slytherin style revenge plots. Any specific comments/questions can be addressed to FrogHopper5@hotmail.com.  
  
  
Spoilers: Books 1 and 4, loosely.  
  
  
Disclaimer: Severus Snape, Poppy Pomfrey, Albus Dumbledore and the entire Potterverse belong to J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Warner Brothers and various others. Not me.  
  
  
  
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Victims   
  
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"Professor Snape is crying, sir!"  
  
Oh, good, he idly thinks. Just what could make the situation even better(!) A house-elf. And a house-elf saying stupid things, at that. Although, come to think of it, when did house-elves ever say sensible things? On the scale of rank stupidity, though, this has to score pretty highly. The sarcastic, elf hating Potions Master, curled in a tight heap on the floor with shaking with barely controlled sobs, and all the bloody house-elf can do is report that he is crying. Just in case he hadn't noticed.  
  
"Professor Snape is needing a doctor, sir?"  
  
A doctor? Poppy Pomfrey, well-known Slytherin Sympathiser and broken nose-mender. Not very competent at that, anyway, all the evidence showed. He could just see the medi-witch being dragged out of bed to tend to him, telling him "there, there, you'll feel better in the morning", and leaving him to his own private hell. After all, it must be a mind-altering curse or a poison, mustn't it, because Snape doesn't cry, no, not that cruel, biased bastard, who, whisper it quietly, some say used to be a Death Eater. But that can't be true, of course, Dumbledore wouldn't let the little children be taught by a Dark Wizard, and Dumbledore's a Gryffindor and knows everything, and does everything right.   
  
Because everyone knows the Gryffindors deserved the points, and it gives the other houses something to hope for, and who cares what the Slytherins thought anyway, because they'll only become Dark Wizards, so losing the cup means nothing to them in comparison. Because of course, they're not just kids, just naïve, young, average kids who play with their friends and celebrate when they get a few points for brewing a Potion properly and hurt when things are taken away, things that were theirs by rights, earned in the mad belief they might mean something. And no one says anything, because the headmaster's always right, and the Slyths don't complain (or not in public), and they're doomed anyway, so where's the harm?  
  
"Professor Snape is hurting."  
  
And the harm comes in the middle of the night, when a house-elf slides her arms around a man, a man who's old enough and experienced enough to know better, but he's crying anyway, and the house-elf cries with him, for there's nothing else to do, and the grief's too strong, and the words don't help, and the man and the elf cry together, weeping for what never has been, and what isn't, and what probably, no matter how hard he tries, and my God, he does try, never will be.  
  
And suddenly there's a change, and he realises that somehow he's comforting the elf, and he wonders how that happened, but he can't worry, because a memory stirs, and he remembers another elf, terrified, but determined, in his private stores, less than a year ago, risking everything through loyalty to a friend. And he remembers the triumph of the boy, and he sees the unquestioning friendship reflected in this elf now, and it's killing him, for this is his paradox, for he knows friendship is all that the world will have left if the Dark rules, and is all that is keeping him sane enough - just - to make sure it doesn't. But to ensure that, he must preach betrayal and treason and loss and loneliness, must convince children, the young and the innocent to leave their families, to turn away from their friends, and he's dying inside, for he knows he is not the first to feel this way, and if he is to succeed, he will condemn others to his fate.  
  
But, then, who will care? They are the children of the Dark, they are the feared Slytherins, and it will be worth it, for the world will rejoice. And no one will remember the children, the victims of a war to remove prejudice, which will only shift the balance. Only one man will care, only one will truly weep for the tragedy, of which he will be the cause. And there's nothing he, or a tiny house-elf, who at this moment in time understands more than any human being, can do about it.  
  
  
Fin. 


End file.
